la demande en marriage
by redeaths
Summary: Juliette has the most interesting proposal for Tybalt. There's also flowers involved.


**A/N: Hello friends! This piece of work is slightly and hugely inspired by this beautiful piece of art. ****it's gorgeous,please go see on my bio and go like it on tumblr. I obviously twisted the ages a little to suit my fanfiction needs. But hey fan art is super important because well without that art I don't think this would have come out like it did. SO thank you artist! And thank you Romeo et Juliette for making me ship something I never intended to! A good autobiography title, I believe. Anyway I hope you enjoy it as I did writing it!**

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"Ow! You're pulling my hair!"

"I am not! You're not still!"

"Any stiller and I'd be dead!"

"If you didn't fuss so much it wouldn't hurt."

He let out a sigh. Why argue with children? It is the law of life you cannot win them. They have forceful spirits and too much will in their hearts.

"Just be careful," he said tiredly.

"I am careful, Tybalt! It's not my fault you always move so much!" Juliette replied exasperated. "Oh, look you dropped a flower…"

It was a summer afternoon, but it was truly a Verona summer afternoon. With the lazy sun rays creeping through the windows and hot air that almost inspired lethargy among even the most active of men, it was certainly a thing of Verona. But Tybalt Capulet felt neither lethargic nor hot, he felt restless.

He had been sitting on his cousin's floor for more than an hour while she braided flowers into his hair. Had Tybalt been eight or maybe even nine the affair would not have been so strange, but he was years passed that age. She was just ten and willful, he couldn't argue with her.

"Look, Tybalt, you dropped another flower! Ugh, it's taken me forever to put them in your hair! Why must you squirm so?" she asked.

"I do not squirm! Juliette, can't you ask one of your cousins to let you braid their hair with your plants?"

"They're not plants! They're flowers, pretty flowers!" she corrected him.

"Can't you ask one of your cousins to let you braid their hair with_ pretty_ flowers?"

"Maria's hair is too thin. Angelina's is too thick. Yours is perfect! It's not too long and not too short! But it's always full of knots. This would be much easier if you I didn't have to spend the first half hour combing your hair, you know?"

He grunted. He never touched his hair; he never cared to do anything to it. He had started to let it grow out last year and it seemed to take care of itself just fine. Most women loved his hair, anyway.

"Why don't you ask your nurse to comb it for you? My nurse does that for me!"

"I don't have a nurse, Juliette."

"You should get a nurse!"

"I don't need a nurse. How many more flowers do I need in my hair? It seems you have put half of the Verona gardens!"

"Oh, hardly! One can never have too many flowers in their hair," she said with a smile.

"Why do I let you do this to me?"

And truth was he let her do this to him quite often.

It had started when she had been eight and picked up flowers in the family's garden. She had asked her nurse what to do with the pretty flowers and the witty nurse had concurred to put flowers in her long golden hair. Juliette had loved it so much she would after pick flowers every day and have them placed in her hair before dinner. Her floral obsession soon spread to putting flowers into the hair of others. One by one everyone around her succumbed to the flower plague; first her nurse, then her dolls, her mother, her father, her cousins and one of her father's horses. It would have not been such a problem to the family had she not been such a terrible braider. Her fingers were small and clumsy and thus the flowers were more often than not twisted into knots with the victim's hair. It was a painful situation, not truly an annoyance. Her mother demanded her at once to only play flower braiding with her cousins. One supposes they could have refused but Juliette was too sweet and gentle. A 'yes' was the world to her, she was heaven's own light when she had her way. The child was spoiled, yes, but not selfish or cruel. She was beloved by her cousins and alas the poor things suffered Juliette's braiding in quiet tears.

One afternoon her cousins had gone away and Juliette could not braid flowers into their hair. She grew sad and she cried. Tybalt had by a matter of chance come to visit his uncle and aunt that day. Let the reader know that he never came truly to visit his uncle and aunt; if one were to look into his life they would realize he never in his life came with that intention. All his visits were devoted to her; the child with the golden hair and the flowers. When he saw her in tears and she explained her situation, embellished by her in her own natural way, he could not help but take sympathy in her plight. He agreed to let her braid his hair with flowers just this "one time".

But there was no "one time". It was several times after that. Even when she outgrew her flower fixation, she never outgrew braiding flowers into her favorite cousin's hair. He had wished he could have said no to her at least once, but his heart never had the strength to refuse her anything. And her heart, in return, burned with happiness whenever she got her way with him. And thus was their relationship; it was a sweet compromise of hearts the two played.

But he regretted the compromise even now. He was on the verge of sixteen, no longer a child, but more of a man. And he was well-respected as such, or so he thought.

He was more feared than anything, and fear was not respect. But Tybalt did not know that. He only saw what he wanted to see and heard what he wanted to hear. His own father had once told him a great lie; this lie went that a sword was respect and that spilled blood carried honor. He believed in that so firmly that he could never deny a duel or a chance for confrontation. Because, for him, war was strength and peace was weakness. He hated long words and he hated men who spewed them. He looked down on those whose hearts were in books, women, drink or anything that was not a sport of war. He was arrogant, cynical at times and with a volcanic temper. Quick to anger, quick to fight, he was both the family's pride and shame. A headache, in truth. And he knew so and that made him angrier. It was uncertain whether his bitter outlook came from himself or from what his family thought of him. He was a lonely soul and an awful companion. He cared little for others and cared less for himself. He was truly a despicable picture.

But this Tybalt was not the one you would see next to little Juliette. He was not arrogant, he was timid. He was not cynical but soft-spoken. And his temper was more of an ember than a volcano in her presence. He was different all at once. The kind of different we are when we are allowed to be ourselves without the fear of being judged or frowned upon on. He was free with her. He was free _for_ her.

Yet his freedom came at a price. He often found himself in the most embarrassing situations because of her. He was grateful her flower braiding was done in the privacy of her room with no witnesses to behold such image, for it was quite one. Picture a boy, no, a man, no older than sixteen, with a child about the age of ten on the floor. He holding blue and white flowers while she braided them into his hair. The girl humming happily as she did her task, and he grunting in exasperation and pain. It was quite a sight! But no one knew about this strange affair except for Juliette's nurse who approved with quiet snickers and sly smiles. Even his aunt was clueless to what sort of games Tybalt and Juliette played at.

There came a time when their ages were so much at odds that it had Lady Capulet questioning the nurse what went on between the two cousins.

"Games, nothing more," the Nurse replied.

"But Tybalt is too old," Lady Capulet said preoccupied.

"And Juliette is too young. In truth, my lady there is only one game: whatever Juliette wants. If she wants to run outside, they go run outside. If she wants to paint, they paint. If she wants to read, he reads to her. They play it all the time. Tybalt merely goes along with it. Have no fear, his intentions are pious not dishonorable. Your daughter is in good care, I swear, for he is as dangerous to her as I," the Nurse said.

Lady Capulet's nerves were settled and the case was put to rest.

The Nurse, in truth, was more of Juliette's mother than Lady Capulet ever was. She had fed her, bathed her and would probably, if God ever allowed such fate, die for her. She loved her dearly and she loved her fiercely. She had been watchful of Tybalt at first but then realized the boy (for every man was a boy to her) was merely clay in her Juliette's hands.

One evening when Juliette had dashed outside to get more flowers for his hair, the Nurse entered the room with drink and food for him. She could not contain herself at the sight of Tybalt's hair in flowers, this was a boy that carried and played with swords! This was a boy that the Montagues and half of Verona trembled with fear for! And so she laughed ever so shamefully and heartily that tears came to her eyes.

"Oh, you are her life's joy!" she reassured him.

"And she is mine," he said.

But in this quiet afternoon, Juliette was not his joy but his captor. She was holding him prisoner and his jail was of flowers and dolls.

"Blue or white?" she mused.

"Don't you have red? The family's colors would be nice," he suggested.

"No, red looks awful on you! Besides those flowers are too large," she said enthusiastically as she took another flower from his hand.

Watching her work was a treat, for she took her work seriously. With much concentration, she schematically took each flower and arranged it ever so carefully in his hair. Now as it was said before, she was not a skilled in the art of braids and her hands were small and clumsy. Tybalt's hair was not a pleasant sight for it had been turned into a nest of knots and flowers, a nest that would take him hours to undo once the affair was over. But in Juliette's eyes it was a work of art. And it is hard to argue with an artist over their art. Little Juliette was an artist and Tybalt the doomed muse, a truly restless one.

"Juliette, are you sure there are no other cousins you could braid their hair to?" he asked tiredly.

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, give me another flower."

He did as she bid.

"Surely there must be. How about Lucia? You two are close in age."

"I loathe her!"

"Why the sudden hatred?" Tybalt inquired with almost a smirk on his face, for her outburst had seemed too serious for her age.

She caught the smirk and her face grew stern, as if she were not amused he was amused. Despite her age, Juliette was capable of deep passions. She was particularly passionate about loathing or adoring people. She loved and hated very quickly and, as Tybalt showed, this was purely a Capulet gift.

"She's awful! She's changed over the summer, Tybalt! She no longer talks with me, she no longer talks to any of the cousins! I asked her to braid her hair and all she did was say I was a fuss and push me away. And when I asked if she wanted to play dolls, for it was her favorite thing to do, she said she was 'too old' for dolls. 'Too old'! She's twelve! You're fifteen and you still play dolls with me!"

"Only because you ask me to… Must you remind me of that?" he said painfully.

"She's not too old for dolls, Tybalt! All she cares is about her hair and pretty dresses. I like dresses, too, but not like that. She only cares about pretty dresses boys will see her in. All she talks about is boys. We were out in the gardens the other day and when a boy passed by us, I heard her say 'that man is so handsome, he's the kind the man I'd like to marry'. Marriage! Why who thinks about marriage?" she asked angrily.

"She's almost thirteen," he said thoughtfully, "my mother married my father when she was thirteen."

"So did my mother," Juliette echoed. She then shook her head and continued.

"But alas, Tybalt, she's only twelve why must she grow up so quickly and change so quickly as well? I miss Lucia now because well, she's not Lucia! Why must we grow old and die and get married?"

"I believe you get married, grow old and then die," he said amused.

"I know but it's all the same! Marriage! I never want to get married. To go away with a complete stranger, how awful it must be," she said with the saddest look on her face.

"Well, don't get married," he said suddenly.

"I won't! But my mother will force me to, I know. Just yesterday she said to my father, 'Look at Juliette with her pretty golden hair and sweet eyes, she will be as brilliant as the sun when she's fifteen. Men will fight to marry her!' Oh, I like the sun very much and I'd like to be as brilliant as it, but not to get married, not like that…"

She frowned in the most miserable of ways. Tybalt noticed she seemed less like a child than she was an hour ago when she had been braiding his hair. Worry and fear were the truly murderers of childhood. Juliette had both swimming through her head while the thought of marriage consumed her.

"It's years away, Juliette," he said trying to comfort her. "Years and years away…"

"I know but… but what if I didn't have to married? I mean at least not to a stranger!" she said with an inexplicable vivacity.

A violent thought had occurred to her, such a thought that was both nonsense and sense. To a child, such as Juliette, marriage often means the separation from the family. It was the parting of the toys, of the dolls, of the joys of childhood, and also the parting of the mother, the father and the nurse. But Juliette figured if she cheated, that is if she married differently, she wouldn't have to do any of that.

"I'll marry you!"

Before he could even protest and she knelt beside him and took him by the hand. And then she spoke proudly, using as much charm as she could muster, as does a man who professes his love to his future wife.

"Tybalt, my cousin, I love thee. Would you marry me?"

"Juliette, you're mad. No!" he said turning crimson.

"No, it's perfect! We'll be together every day! We can do this every day! We'll play dolls, you'll read to me, we'll eat as much as we like and I'll braid flowers into your hair. Nothing would make me happier! I would still see my mother and father and my nurse! And best of all, you'd always be with me. Just think of it!"

And he did think of it. He had thought of it, much too often and under different circumstances. He didn't have the same dolls and flowers in his thoughts but he did share the thought of Juliette, always there and always smiling. But it was a hopeless thought, so hopeless it was merely a dream. And so he dreamed of it very much, and quite privately.

"Juliette, I cannot marry you," he said. "You are too young and even if you grew and our ages weren't of concern, I still could not marry you for the same reason you are my cousin."

"You don't love me?" she asked hurt.

"I adore you."

"But you can't marry me?"

"I wish I could."

"I don't understand."

And she didn't for a child marriage is only but an abstract thought. Yet Tybalt thought he could somehow explain and he did so the way he had too been explained once.

"You see, marriage is about politics. Families use marriage to advance their political power or wealth. Economically a good marriage should provide for both families. A marriage is considered successful on the gains of each family not how much love is distributed among the married."

Juliette looked at him quizzically.

"Marriage is not about love," he said finally.

"So you can't marry me because you love me?"

"I can't marry you because the world is cruel."

A part of him feared she would understand what he meant and a part of him wanted her to understand it. But poor Juliette did not understand the explanation or her cousin's feelings. She never truly did.

"But I thought marriage was about love…" she said confused.

"It is!" he said restlessly. He had increasingly grown nervous of the marriage talk, a topic that made him feel awkward all over. The mess of knots and flowers in his hair just made the things worst.

"Look, Juliette, love is wonderful. Love _should_ be why people marry. You love me but not the love that you marry someone for. A love in which you'd rather die than be parted from the person you love most. That's the love you marry someone for in the right world. The very same stupid love men die for."

She did not understand politics but she understood the concept of love for she beared love for many things in her life. Somehow she grasped she needed to love someone very much to marry them. But because she assumed she already loved very much, the thought of loving someone much more than she knew until now terrified her. And because there was no solution to her mental predicament, she simply nodded and changed the subject.

"Can I finish braiding your hair?"

"Are you not done?" he asked bewildered.

"No, I still need half of your head!"

"Juliette…"

"Please!"

"Just the last half," he grumbled.

And she proceeded to her art in her careful yet charming fashion. Amidst the silence, a new devilish thought occurred to the child.

"Tybalt, do you love someone more than very much? Do you have someone you love so much that you would rather die than be parted from them?" she asked with curiosity.

"I do."

"Who is it?" she exclaimed.

"I can't tell you."

"Will you ever tell me?"

"I will be cold and dead in my grave before you ever know of the love I bear, Juliette."

"You are wicked," she said with a pout.

"No, you are the wicked one, with all your flowers and your braids!" he said.

"Yet you like me!" she said triumphantly.

"That I do."

The rest of the evening went by slowly. Tybalt promised to play dolls with her later and in exchange Juliette would remove the flowers from his hair. The idea of playing dolls with Tybalt was not so agreeable to her in the first place because he always asked her to pick up branches from the garden; these would serve as swords for the dolls. And it was not that she did not like the dolls dueling but rather that Tybalt always wanted one doll to die. He said it was more realistic that way but that only made Juliette frown.

Nevertheless she agreed on the bargain. She soon regretted it for she spent twice the time taking the flowers from Tybalt's wretched knots of hair. She was clumsy in her attempts and she hurt him many times but he did not cry out once in pain.

The Nurse came by to check on them and found the most ordinary scene of the two. Juliette ever so fixated in destroying her exquisite floral mastery and her cousin in angst and quiet pain. She only laughed with her eyes and left the two children alone.


End file.
